


The Adventure of the Fob Watch

by sfiddy



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Torchwood
Genre: Banter, Case Fic, Chameleon Arch, Episode: s03e09 The Family of Blood, Episode: s05e11 The Lodger, Gen, Twitter request, Wholock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 08:40:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sfiddy/pseuds/sfiddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new client's concern for his eccentric lodger turns into an improbable adventure for Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.  But improbable does not equal impossible, and the boys of Baker Street get wrapped in the strange events surrounding the odd repairman with the unlikely name.  A Chameleon Arch Wholock mashup inspired by a single tweet from Audreyii_fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Fob Watch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [audreyii_fic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreyii_fic/gifts).



Sherlock Holmes loudly rustled his paper.  Without glancing up, John Watson, his faithful chronicler, guardian angel and friend, continued typing on his blog. 

Even from the corner of his eye, John saw the roll of Sherlock’s eyes.

Tap.  Tap.  Tap.

After two more minutes, Sherlock sprang from the sofa and stepped over the coffee table.

“Oi!  Mind the biscuits, Sherlock.”

“Bored!” 

“Check your email, then.”

“There’s nothing.”  Sherlock began rummaging around his makeshift lab.

John sighed.  It was going to be a long day.  “Any messages?”

“Nothing.”

“Any texts from-“

“No.”

“Hang on!”  John closed his laptop.  “You didn’t even hear what I was going to say.”

Sherlock fingered a slide from an experiment.  “I didn’t need to.  It was dull anyway.”

“Thanks for that.  I can see you’re going to be pleasant today unless we get a case in.”  John shuffled into the kitchen and cleared space for the kettle.

After setting his slides aside, Sherlock opened his lab notebook.  “I might go to Bart’s.”

John set the packet of tea down with more force than necessary.  “No.  I just cleaned the fridge.  Give it one day’s rest, will you?”

“Fine.  If I don’t get at least a solid seven, I’m going to Bart’s.  Preferably an eight.”

“Six, and failing that, double bag your…samples this time.”

…

The lady left in a huff, but at least was polite enough to set her teacup in the sink before storming out.   John dropped his pen and held his face in his hands.

Sherlock stood and poured another cup for himself.  “Problem?”

“You didn’t really have to go that far.”  John moaned.

“It was no better than a four, you must admit.  Plus, I saved us the tedium for hearing the whole story.”

John looked up, too accustomed to be horrified by Sherlock’s methodology and yet sensitized to its permutations.  “Was it really necessary to catalog her last-night’s activities?  A discreet euphemism would have served just as well.”

“There is no discreet euphemism that describes a doffing your coat and whatever else you were wearing for a naked jaunt through the hedges.  The fact that she lost her wedding ring to a complete stranger who left her with nothing but a handprint on her arse and a used serviette with a doodle is, in my humble yet honest opinion, an act of karmic alignment.”  Sherlock began to gather his scarf and coat.  John stood, stretched, and crossed the room to peer out the window. 

A man across the street was looking at their streetdoor. 

“Sherlock, hang on.  Take a look.”

John moved to the side and the two surreptitiously watched the man through the sheer curtain.  “Very good, John.  Well, what do you say?  Think he’ll do it?”

“Well, he’s around thirty or thirty five, looks like he works for a living but not terribly active, so fairly well educated.”

“Debatable, but likely.  What else?”

“He’s not scared, but he’s worried, like he’s coming on someone’s behalf.  If something had scared him or someone was hurt he’d have gone to the police, so this is something he wants to look into but wants to be discreet.”

Sherlock smiled.  “Which would imply what?”

John cocked his head to the side.  “Eh, that the situation is delicate because it’s personal?   Maybe work related and he doesn’t want to attract attention?  A friend?”

“Well done.  Now the question is, is his concern for his friend strong enough to overcome his fear of looking like a moron.  Always a problem.”

John nodded.  “People do worry about looking stupid.”

“They should be more concerned about actually being stupid.  Ah, it appears our friend has concluded his inner warfare in favor of looking like a moron in order to help a friend.  That means it’s at least a five.  There’s hope for your refrigerator yet, John.”

From below, they could hear the scrape of the door as Mrs. Hudson let in their next client.

…

Sherlock set the spare chair in the middle of the sitting room.  “Please sit, Mr…?”

“Owens.  Craig Owens.”  Craig Owens set his plump self down on the chair and winced.  Sherlock specially selected the chair for its discomfort to discourage lingering by boring clients.

John handed Craig Owens a cup of tea and sat in his chair, pen at the ready.  “So, tell us what brings you here today, Mr. Owens.”

“Craig, please.  Well, I have this friend.”

Sherlock sighed.  “Really?  How nice for you.”   John shushed him and gestured sympathetically for Craig to continue.

“Like I said, a friend.  Well, he’s sort of a friend, but he started as a lodger in my house and just sort of became a friend.”

“John, we are swiftly approaching a four.”

With a nervous glance towards his pristine refrigerator, John sat forward in his chair.  “Craig, how long has this friend been lodging with you?”

“About six weeks now.”

“Does he have a job?  Regular visitors?”

Craig swirled the tea in his cup.  “Well, not a regular job, but he seems to be a repair man of some kind.  Takes in electronic bits and broken things and repairs them.”

Sherlock paced by Craig and turned.  “So, there are many visitors to his rooms then?”

“Not at all.  He keeps to himself quite a lot, fiddling with his tools and whatever he’s got in his room.  Only goes out for little errands.”

John scribbled a few lines.  “So, how does he get his jobs?  If he takes in work he must get it delivered then?”

“Oh yes.”  Craig’s eyes glazed for a moment.  “He has an assistant.  She brings him his work and delivers it when he’s done.”

“A girlfriend then?”

“Uh…”  Craig met John’s eyes again.  “Not that I can tell.  If they are, they’re incredibly…quiet.  But she’s not like any mechanic’s employee I’ve ever seen.”

Sherlock sat in his chair and steepled his hands.  “Good, Mr. Owen.  You’ve managed to somewhat interest me in your friend’s aptitude with wires, but given me nothing about the man or why you’re here.  Please, without dawdling over your tongue or panting over a girl, describe the purpose of your visit.”

Craig shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  “Well, I’m worried that he’s hiding out, being hunted.  Like he’s some kind of government scientist gone mad.”

John was well practiced at stifling his reactions but Sherlock made no effort.   “While I appreciate the confusion you may have when faced with the exposed guts of a broken microwave, I’m not sure an eccentric repairman warrants your concerns.   Good day, Mr. Owens.  I hear the café downstairs has a lovely special today.”

Craig stood, red faced.  “That’s not all, Mr. Holmes!”

“Then what is, Mr. Owens?”

John set his pen to the paper in readiness.  Craig licked his lips and swallowed hard.  “I’ve been in his room.  It’s not just his repairs.  He’s got things.  Things I’ve never seen before; they don’t even seem real.  Little pointers that make the lights go on and off, tiny little robotic bugs and a giant model hanging from the ceiling fan that makes music and a light show just by waving your hands.”

Sherlock turned.  “Interesting, but I’m not excited by a remote control light switch.”

“He turned off all the streetlights on our lane by accident with it.”  Craig’s face twitched as he exchanged a stare with Sherlock.   “And, that’s not all…  He…”

Sherlock stepped closer.  “Yes?”

“He cries out in his sleep.  Something about blood and war.”  John winced.  “I’m no expert, Mr. Holmes, but I know what it sounds like when someone is having a nightmare about something real.”

…

When Craig unlocked the door, John immediately noticed the flashing lights streaking across the floor. 

“Oh, that’s one of his contraptions.  Must have nothing on if he’s fiddling with it.”

John watched the dancing lights and jumped when a loud whoop came from behind the door they were coming under.  “What is it?  What does it do?”

Craig shrugged.  “See for yourself.”  He rapped on the door.  “John?  It’s Craig.  How are you, mate?”

A loud thud was followed by a crash.  The door flew open.  “Craig!  Come and see!”  With hair haphazardly flopped over one eye, a slim man in a dusty and worn t-shirt grabbed Craig by the arm.  “It’s working!”

John and Sherlock followed Craig into the cramped room.  The slim man held out his arms and appeared to guide a ball that was covered in lights that flashed in time to his movements and floating mid-air.  “Isn’t it brilliant?  It detects the motion of the room and lights up corresponding tracks of embedded lights to replicate the motion pattern!”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and looked around the room.  John gaped, open mouthed.  “But it-“

“How does it do it?  Well, I took the little camera lenses out of about three hundred broken cell phones and wired the cameras into a field array, then re-programmed them to feed into a three-dimensional panoramic video montage and take live readings of motion, then modulated the light output based on a simple rubric of the input!”

Craig shook his head.   “But, it’s flying.”

The man pushed his hair off his face and gave them all a confused head tilt.  “Of course it’s flying.  It has to be in the geometric center of the room to get an accurate and proportionate read of the motion input.  You can be so silly, Craig.”

Shaking off the flying ball in the room, Craig stretched an arm towards Sherlock and John.  “John, I’d like you to meet Mister Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson.  Gentlemen, this is my friend, John Smith.”

Sherlock pulled off his gloves and took John Smith’s hand with a polite nod, only momentarily distracted from the horde of mechanical bobs and carefully disassembled and sorted parts.  John Watson reached out and was immediately thankful he was shot in the left shoulder.

“John!  You’re a John, too!  That’s brilliant.  There simply aren’t enough people named John anymore and I say that having the most generic name of them all.  And a doctor-“  John Smith paused for a moment, chewing the word.  “Well,” he began more soberly “there’s a profession we could all use more of being around, yeah?”

The street door opened and a leggy redhead bustled in carrying a large box with a couple bagged cellphones, a laptop, and a few children’s toys inside.  “Put your toys away, John.  Got your next job here.”

John Watson stared.  Craig Owens stared.  Sherlock glanced.  John Smith grabbed the box and pulled out a remote controlled car with blinky lights and a siren.  “Oh, yes.  Now this is lovely, just imagine what we can add to this one, Amelia.”

The redhead plucked the car from his hands.  “Just fix it.  No adding things, remember what happened to the Jack-in-the-Box.”  She set the car back in the box and looked around the room with a frown.  “You’ve got visitors.” 

“Yes!  The little one is the Doctor John, and the tall quiet one who likes my workshop but not Craig is Sherlock.  Say hello, Amelia.”

Amelia shook John Watson’s hand quickly but kept both eyes on Sherlock as he examined every object.  His eyes came to rest on an old-fashioned fob watch.  As he lifted his hand in order to touch it, it was snatched away by the redhead.

“Right then.  Can’t be too careful with John’s things, can we?”  She glared at Sherlock and slipped it into a pocket.

“Of course, Miss-?”

“Pond.  Amelia Pond.  Now if you don’t mind, John is full up this afternoon and we need to get these out by tomorrow noon.”

Craig ushered them out of John Smith’s room after getting a light shove from Amelia.  The door closed hard enough to shake the hall fixture and was followed by the sound of delighted discovery as John Smith, no doubt, rummaged through the box of broken treasures.

“See?  I don’t understand half of what he’s got going on in there, and I’m surprised she let you see him at all.”

Sherlock pulled his gloves back on.  “Half?  All that?”  He adjusted his scarf and stood by the door.  “Come John.  I need patches.  Mr. Owen, I’ll text you.  John?”

John Watson was still staring at the door. 

“You can close your mouth now, John.”

“Right.  Craig, we’ll be in touch.”

Craig let them out the street door and picked the post out of the box.  An older man in a plaid work shirt watched him.  “Afternoon, Mr. Chibnall.”

The staring man sniffed deeply at the air that swept out Craig’s open door. 

“Getting a sniffle?  You’ll want to get out of the chill, Mr. Chibnall.  Take care!”

…

“Any views?”

“Nice legs.”

“Of the case, man.  What of John Smith.”

“Oh.  He rather reminded me of you in a giddy, mad sort of way.  He builds flying machines that defy logic when he’s bored rather than shoot the wall.”

Sherlock pressed a second patch to his forearm and took a deep breath.  “What did you see in his room?”

“A shockingly full display of every form of motherboard, chip, transistor, tool, circuit and blinky doo-dad ever invented separated into crates and boxes.  I assume there was a system to it all, but damned if I understand it.  And a flying ball.  Tea?”

“Merely a trick.  Did you see the framing above?  The flashing lights would have rendered it invisible.   Yes.”  Sherlock stretched on the sofa.  “Despite the volume and madness in the room, there was nothing out of place.”

“We’re out of fresh milk, but I’ve got a carton.  Yes, everything seemed like it was in a particular spot.”

“Get some later.  But you’re forgetting Amelia.”

“Get some yourself, you git.  And I don’t think I’ll be forgetting Amelia anytime soon.”  John sighed.  He hadn’t even thought to try to flirt; he’d been too overwhelmed.

“Not her legs, John.  What she did.”

“What did she do?”

Sherlock closed his eyes.  “There was one object, just one that didn’t fit.  One object that didn’t make sense in that room.  With all the gadgets, sitting out on a shelf between lasers, voltmeters, and a soldering iron, was a simple fob watch.”

John stood and headed to the kitchen.  “Maybe it was a gift?  Family heirloom?”

“No, a family heirloom would never have been left next to a soldering iron.”

The kettle was filled and tea set out.  “Perhaps it was given in lieu of payment.  Barter?”

“Then why would Amelia have grabbed it away like that?  No, John.  There is something going on and Amelia Pond knows about it.”

The kettle boiled.  “If he is in hiding, then we won’t be helping at all if we start nosing around.  We might attract unwanted attention just by being there.”

Sherlock hummed to himself and smiled when he heard his mug being set on the coffee table.  John walked to the window and gazed out onto Baker Street. 

The light was fading and some of the streetlights were flickering to life.  Underneath one stood a man in a plaid shirt. 

“Boys!”  Mrs Hudson yelled up the stairs.  “I’m popping out to see Mrs. Turner for bridge.  There’s biscuits on the stair for you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.  Good night!”

John watched as Mrs. Hudson walked around the café to the next street door.  The man in the plaid shirt leaned back, his chest barreling outwards and filling the oversized shirt.  As he exhaled, he looked up with cold flat eyes, smiled, and walked on.

“What is it?”  Sherlock asked as he sat up and reached for his tea.

“Nothing.  A man looked up from the street, that’s all.  I’ll go and get those biscuits.”

…

The next morning came and John assumed that Sherlock had a result to send to Craig Owen, advising him to either calm his imagination or to contact Lestrade for further instructions.  Instead, Sherlock was pacing impatiently to leave before John had a chance to finish his second cup of tea.

“Come on, John.  We need to get there while he’s working.”

John slipped on his jacket and pocketed his keys.  “How will we know he’s still working?”

“Amelia said the repairs were due by noon today.  She won’t bother him while he’s supposed to be working.”  Sherlock’s shoes flew over the stairs and tapped impatiently for John by the street door.

“Ah.”

When they arrived at Craig’s streetdoor, they listened before ringing.  There was quiet, punctuated by whirrs, soft clicks, and the shrill sounds of a child’s toy.

“Excellent.  He’s probably nearly done.”  Sherlock pressed the buzzer.

John Smith stuck his head out the door.  He was wearing goggles that belonged on a long-ago aviator, except the lenses were multi-colored and wavy.  “Why hello, Doctor John and Sherlock-who-does-not-care-for-Craig.  That really is a shame.  He’s ever so nice and tolerant of me.”  He pulled the goggles up and rubbed at the rings around his eyes.  “Then again, I suspect he might like to tolerate dear Amelia a bit more, but I can’t help him there.  Come in, come in!”

“Actually,”  Sherlock interrupted.  “We were wondering if you’d like to come out.  Your soldering iron smells a bit hot, and you ought to open the windows and let the fumes out.  Wouldn’t you say, Doctor?”

“Yes.”  Both Johns replied.

John Smith ran inside with Sherlock on his heels and opened up a few windows.  John waited outside and kept an eye on the street.  It was mid-morning and there was little more than mothers walking their prams and few people obviously at work, yet not actually at work.  One curious young man caught his eye.  He had the same cold expression as the man in the street the night before.  Even from across the street, John could hear the loud sniff.  Flu season was approaching, no doubt, and he dreaded what the surgery waiting room would sound like in a few weeks time.

Sherlock and John Smith exited the house and locked the door.  They made an odd trio as they walked down the street, Sherlock smoothly striding with the edges of his coat flapping next to John Smith, who had donned a slightly too-short jacket and gesticulated non-stop as they walked.  As mad as he seemed, he observed everything around him with the same clarity of thought as Sherlock.

John, however, walked behind them and had to hop every so often to keep up.  At least he didn’t have to bow down to walk under some scaffolding built onto the walk.  The workers paused in their brick repairs to watch them go by.

“Oh, and the gentleman next door finally stopped complaining when I fixed his telly, radio, and his grandson’s laptop.  Now they all can be controlled by a single remote control.  Well, not the laptop, you still control that with the keyboard, but the telly and radio are on one.”

“How did you manage that?”  John wondered.  “Mrs. Hudson uses three.”

John Smith looked back and winked.  “Sciency-wiency.  I just adjusted the frequency.  It’s all in the settings.  Don’t tell.  Here we go!”  They arrived at a small corner shop.  “The shops!  I love a shop.  So shoppy and full of baskets and lovely things.”  John Smith picked up a basket and began to peruse.  John went ahead and picked up fresh milk and bread.  John Smith grabbed custard, bananas, apples, fish fingers and beans. 

“I can’t stand beans.  Bad.  But Craig likes them.  And bananas.  I must have bananas.  A few apples, too, though god knows why.  I just feel the need to put apples in my basket today.   Maybe I’ll put them in Craig’s bowl.  What are you getting Doctor John?  Oh look!  Jelly Babies!”

As John Smith darted away for his sweets, John Watson edged closer to Sherlock.  “Why did you go in his rooms?  I’m sure he can handle opening windows on his own.”

“I’m sure he could make them wireless and rig them to play an opera.  But I followed him inside to get this.”  Sherlock pulled the fob watch just out of his coat pocket to show John, then slipped it back in.  “He never looked for it or at it.  It’s as if he didn’t even know it was there.”

“Is it even his?  Do you think it’s Amelia’s?”

John Smith zipped back with his bag of candy.  “What about Amelia?  She has the most remarkable name doesn’t she?  I love it.  Amelia Pond, Amelia Pond.  It’s like a fairy tale in your mouth.”

Sherlock smiled brightly.  “It’s lovely.  Ready?  I think the chip and pin machines are over there.  John has a story he could tell you about them.”

John Watson grimaced, and Smith whipped around and headed where Sherlock had pointed.  “Odd isn’t it?  They’re called chip and pin machines, but they disgorge neither chips nor pins.  That’s a shame about the chips, though probably a good thing about the pins.”

“Indeed.”  Sherlock replied.  John Smith scanned his items and took his bag, leaving Watson to scan his.  Smirking, John took his bag as well and left Sherlock to pay.

With his face to the sun, John Smith grinned at the sky.  “I love this sun.  Shall we go?  Go where?  I know a nice place only a few blocks away where we can get a donut.  Or chips.  They must be Scottish so they fry everything and it’s simply brilliant.”

“Certainly.”  Sherlock said.  “And on the way, why don’t you tell us about your business?  We may have some things that need fixing.”

They set off at a slow pace and John Watson was able to keep up. “Of course!  Smith and Pond Repairs.  If it has a wire, circuit board, lights, fails to heat or cool or goes pong when it should go ping, I’m your man.  She’s the woman, not that it’s her job, but she can come round and fetch your ponging-not-pinging devices, and I fix them.”

They dodged a ball that was rolling down the hill.  John looked ahead and saw no one giving chase, so he stopped the ball and left it in the grass.  “So, where did you get started?  Some of those tools are quite sophisticated for a simple repair man.”

“Ah, Doctor John, I make my own tools.  For instance,” he pulled a slender pen from his pocket.  “This is a fractional wave dissipater.  If I hold it against any device that produces waves, a microwave for instance, I can retune the frequency by adjusting my hold angle.  A gyro inside recognizes the pitch I hold it at, and voila! Perfectly cooked potatoes in the micro.  Just don’t try to do fish afterwards; it’s not pretty.  There’s also a special setting that can boil water in five seconds.

“Then there’s this one.”  Smith tucked the pen in his pocket and pulled out a tube with two prongs at the end.  “This little beauty can detect shifts in people’s physiology, when it’s working anyway.  Tricky things, olfactory sensors.”

John started.  “Olfac- you mean it sniffs people?”

“Yes!  Exactly!  Though mind you, I had a rubbish time tuning it recently.  I thought I had it all worked out to detect the thrown off-gassing from skin sloughing, but I suspect the season change has done it in.”  He tapped the prongs.  “I rather think bug season should be over, but that’s nature for you.  Chitin knows no season.”

John Watson shook his head to clear it and jogged to catch up.  Sherlock was silent, merely allowing John Smith to talk.  Watson would have found it amusing were he not utterly confounded.

Smith pulled an apple from his bag and tossed it up to catch it.  “I tell you, all things can be calibrated if carefully observed.  There is no reason why, if good thought is not applied, you cannot levitate a ball in a room to watch you, rather than you watch it lie upon the floor.  All you really need is time.”  Smith paused.  “Time is… well it is.”  He walked on.

The apple took to the air in measured jumps.  Sherlock fell back momentarily and whispered, “We should let him get back to work, and I’ll examine the watch at Baker Street.  I can’t risk running into Amelia when it’s not in the room.”

Smith kept walking.  “Actions have ripples, gentlemen.  Those ripples send out waves that affect all things around them for eternity.  It’s hard to say what a single incident will mean when it happens, but in five minutes, thirty, a day, a week, a millennia, a single motion could, in fact, change everything.”  They approached the scaffolding over the walk and watched the workers.  “Time is action and reaction, and ripples sent out in all directions from an event could, perhaps…”  Smith’s attention wandered.  A woman walked a pram opposite them from the scaffold.  She would not have seen the slow slide of the pallet of brick suspended alongside the scaffold’s work surface as the strap, frayed and worn, began to slip through the buckle it was supposed to be secured in.  The pram would not fit under the scaffold, John saw, so the young woman veered out to walk around it.

“Perhaps…”  Smith continued.  With barely a motion in warning, he drew back and threw the apple.  It ricocheted off a bar and bumped a loose brick which knocked a bucket of grout onto the ground a few feet in front of the pram, causing the woman to scream and stop immediately.  Not five seconds later, the load of brick fell to the ground, precisely where her walk would have taken her.

Sherlock stopped cold.  He had, of course, seen the inevitable.  After John Smith’s unlikely rescue with the apple, he was sure of his earlier conclusions.

“Tell me, John Smith, how did you stage this?”

Breathing heavily, John Smith gave a huff as he ran to the woman’s side.  John Watson stood alongside Sherlock.  “Are you serious?  Did you see what almost happened?”

“I saw John, and it didn’t.  A man on the scaffold must have pushed the brick at the proper time.  The woman may also be involved.”

“Are you insane?”  John nearly yelled and pointed.  “That woman is hysterical!” 

The woman had pulled her baby from the pram and was frantically checking the child over.  John Smith laid a gentle hand on her forearm to calm her and she pulled him into a hug, holding her savior just as close as her child.  She let John Smith go and he gave a bright smile and waved at the baby, then rejoined Sherlock and John Watson.

“Well, I had a hunch about the apples.  I’m glad I only needed one.  As to who I am, I’m John Smith, repairman.  Let’s go.  I need tea.”

As they walked back to Craig and John’s home, John noticed that the ball was still on the grass.  A little girl was standing next to it now and she stared and sniffed as they walked by.  It would be a horrid season at the surgery for sure.

…

In the kitchen, Smith set out cups and pulled out Craig’s kettle.  He had it filled and was about to plug it in when Sherlock interrupted.

“Why don’t you show us your invention?  The tool that can boil water?”

John Smith looked down.  “Amelia doesn’t like me to show how they work.  It frightens her.”

“Amelia isn’t here.”

“No, but she worries.  When I tell her you were here again, she’ll worry even more.”

“Why?”  Sherlock leaned forward.

John leaned forward.  He lowered his voice.  “She doesn’t like the English.”  Sherlock sat back with a sigh.  “She’s Scottish you see, and here we are, in the middle of London.  I think she’s just skittish.”

“Wait a minute,” Watson interjected.  “You’re English, aren’t you?  Why would she like you?”

“Am I?”

“Where were you born?”

“Gallifrey, Kasterborous County.  Ireland.  I’m Irish.”

Sherlock was silent.  His hands went underneath his chin and he gave John Smith the look.  John Watson knew the look; it was the one that meant your entire life was being read in your eyes and skin.  The performance art did not start, however.

“Who are you?” Sherlock said, more to himself than John Smith.  “Boil the water.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Then tell me who you are.”

“I just did.  I’m Irish.”

“No you aren’t.  And you aren’t from here, either because you can’t describe anything about the area, you have yet to mention anyone apart from your landlord and best friend, and you have no earthly concept of normal habits yet you build and repair complex electronics.  If you want me to either leave you alone, play your games, or protect you, then Boil. The. Water.”

John Smith met Sherlock’s eyes evenly and, without looking to locate it, pulled the pen out of his inside coat pocket.  He held up the kettle's cord to demonstrate that it was not plugged in, then he put the tip of the pen against the kettle and pressed a button on the side.  A whirring sound began, and in a second the water had visible movement.  In two, it swirled, and in five seconds it was on the boil. 

With a smug smile, John Smith replaced the pen in his pocket and poured the water into the teapot.

Sherlock stood abruptly and, without a backwards glance, swept from the room and out the door.

“Erm, I guess I need to, ah… It was nice… thanks for the tea… We’ll be in touch.”  John Watson ran out the street door with his milk and caught up to Sherlock.

“What the hell just happened, Sherlock?  What was that thing?”

“I don’t know.  It must be experimental.  Some sort of induction device.”

“That small?”

Sherlock was at the corner and yelling for a cab.  “Back to Baker Street.  I need to look at this watch.”

…

They arrived home by ten-thirty, and John made the tea they had so cruelly missed.  He noticed that Sherlock watched as he turned the kettle on.  For his part, Sherlock cleared a space on his workbench (the place most people referred to as a counter), an unprecedented act of attention to a case.

“Anything?”  John asked as he dropped the teabags into cups.

“I’m planning.  First is the microscope.”  For an hour, Sherlock meticulously examined every detail on the watch case.  He sketched the interlocking rings, the subtle dents and dings, and described the finish and color of the watch.  Next he weighed the watch and found it heavier than anticipated when compared to modern watches of similar dimensions.  “Unusual alloy.  Clearly not titanium-bearing, which is all the rage, so it’s an antique.”

“Family heirloom?”

“Pour the tea, John.”

After another ten minutes and a few other examinations and scribbling of notes and diagrams, Sherlock took a deep breath and ran his fingers over the case.  “Time to open it.”  John was about to put the milk away when he saw a golden light out of the corner of his eye.

Sherlock’s face, slack in wonder, was illuminated by the watch.  Tendrils of shimmering light caressed his cheek and John lurched forward to snap the case closed.

“What the hell was that?”

Sherlock let out a small breath, eyes strained and watering.  “What?”

“That light?  What was that?”

“Vapor from the vortex.  There is a time shard embedded in the watch.”

His hands now shaking, John set the watch down on the table.  “A what shard?”

“Time, John.  Doctor John.”  Sherlock gazed toward the window.  “They’re coming.”

“Who?”

A loud shout at the door alerted John.  The banging pushed him into action.  Sherlock put the watch in his jacket pocket and stood up to make his way to the sitting room.

Amelia barreled in dragging Craig by the collar.  “Where is it, Mr. Holmes?  Tell me now.”

“Welcome, Amy Pond.”

Coming toe to toe with Sherlock, Amelia spoke low.  “How do you know my name?  What have you done?”

“Amy?”  Craig repeated.

“I checked the time.  Tea?” Sherlock offer her his untouched cup.

  “I don’t want any damn tea.”  She flipped her hair back and shoved Craig to the side.  “I want what you took.  Now.”  She held out her hand.

“It’s hiding right now.  They will be drawing near and he must be protected.”

“Her name is Amy?”  Craig asked no one in particular.  John shrugged and made a mental note.

Amy’s mouth opened.  “What did you say?”

“The mayflies approach, time grows short and they become impatient.”  Sherlock smirked.  “Chitin knows no season.  It grows late and we must fly.”  Sherlock stepped around Amy to pick up his scarf and coat.  “John.”

“Yes?”

“Bring the gun.”

The four, led by Sherlock, spilled onto the street and hailed a cab.  John looked around, nerves tingling, and spotted the man he’d seen the previous night.  Alongside was the girl he saw mere hours before and a young man he hadn’t seen before.

They all sniffed deeply.

“Sherlock.  Oh god, Sherlock.”

“What, Doctor John?”

“Over there.  That…family.  I’ve seen them before.  They’ve been following us.”

A cab pulled up and they all piled in, promising a huge tip to the cabbie.  Amy looked out the window and began to shake.  “Oh no, oh no no no no.”

“What?”  John asked, staring at them also.

“They found us.  Oh my god, they’re here.”

“Who?” 

“The Family.”  Sherlock answered.

“It’s no one!”  Amy shrieked.  “John is no one, and he isn’t anything special!   Oh god, I have to move him.”

“It’s no use, Amy.”  Sherlock told her.  “They’ll just find you again.  They have our scent now, it’s a matter of time, and not much of that.”

“You!”  Amy smacked Sherlock’s arm.  “Give me that watch.  You don’t understand what it is, and it can’t mean anything to you.”

“It’s hiding.  It will be revealed at the proper time.”

“God, you sound like him.  Wanker.”

They arrived at Craig’s house and fell out of the cab in a lump.  When they burst into John Smith’s room, he was wearing his goggles again.  “Amelia!  Lovely to see you.  I have the repairs all done and I didn’t even modify the car.  Though, I bet little Timmy or Billy will be sad when it cannot, in fact convert to a real jet and break the sound barrier.  Everything should be a bit sonic.”

“John, we’ve got to go.”

“But I’m about to program the curly-whirly ribbon maker to run on automatic.  Remember, keep your hands and feet clear.”

“There’s no time, John.”  Sherlock urged.  “But we can regroup and make a stand.”  He grabbed a few boxes and began loading them with things in the room.

“Oh!  The laser paper cutter and the flying ball motion sensor.  Now that is an interesting combination.  Don’t forget my tubes and wires.  Amelia!  You’ve blinded me with science!”

“Shut it, you.  And take those goggles off before you run into something.  We might need to run fast.”

Sherlock took the box out the back door and looked up.  “John, keep the gun ready.”

Amy followed Sherlock into the garden.  “What do you think you’re doing?  We need to run!”

“Nope.  We need to redirect and confuse.   John.”  He handed Smith the box and whispered in his ear.

“Easy as cake.  Custard.  Fish custard.  Easy peasy.” He crouched and began working.

John Watson was holding his gun down, eyes roving every inch of the garden, garden walls, and the house.  He happened to be looking at the wrong garden wall when four pasty-skinned, dead-eyed people came flying over and snatched Amy.  A weapon of some sort was at her temple.

“Doctor, we know you’re here.  We can,”  They inhaled deeply, baring their teeth.  “Smell you.” 

John Smith never stopped, though he went rather green.  John Watson, gun trained on the young man gripping Amy’s arm, took a step closer.  “I’m a doctor.  What do you want?”

“Idiot!”  The girl yelled.  “The Doctor.  You’re just fodder.  We want The Doctor." She sniffed the air and began to sing.  "Come out come out, wherever you are.”

John Smith kept working, crouched by a shrub.  The three unoccupied intruders sniffed and began to fan out.  John kept the gun trained, but stayed in motion so none were behind him.  Two, the older man and the little girl began walking towards the shrub, sniffing and tasting the air.  Sherlock, ever watchful, pulled his hand out of his pocket and flipped the watch open.  Immediately they all turned and ran towards him.  The young man threw Amy to the ground.

“Time Lord!  Time Lord!” The Family said in unison.

“Now, John!  Now!”   John Watson shot the one closest to Sherlock. The woman's body crumpled to the wet ground.  “Smith!  Catch!”  Sherlock hurled the open watch over the three snarling attackers.

John Smith caught the watch and was immediately enveloped in golden light.  The tendrils that had stroked Sherlock’s face, before John Watson’s eyes, enveloped Smith completely.  When it released him, he dropped the watch and sneered grimly.

“You have made me very cross.  Very cross indeed.”  Smith lobbed the flying ball in the middle of where they now stood.  “When I am cross, I do very bad things.”  He dropped the pen tool and Amy set a larger tool in his hand.  He pointed the green tip at the ball and it rose, then shot out a dozens of thin spikes.  The three screamed, thin streams of smoke emitting from their skin.  They were immobilized quickly by a set of bars that anchored themselves to their wrists by bands of liquid metal.

John Smith, deadly calm, walked to Sherlock.  “Thank you for this, Mr. Holmes.  We would have been found anyway, you just made it happen sooner.  May I introduce myself?  I’m the Doctor.  Pleased to meet you.”

“Doctor?”  Amy said softly.  “Is that you?”

“You, Amy Pond.”  The Doctor hugged her close.  “You saved my life and probably most of the galaxy.  Again.  Well done.  There’s work to do now, but not for you.”  He turned with wrath on his face.  He flipped a switch on his green tool and, from nowhere, a blue police box appeared.  “Into the Tardis.  We aren’t finished.  Amy, you stay here with Craig, I think you’ll find he’s in a dead faint in the sitting room.  Just as well.”

He ushered the manacled prisoners into the box and gave Sherlock and John a little wave.  “Till next time, Mr. Holmes, Doctor John!  Just a mo’- I’ll send a friend ‘round to take care of any remaining questions you may have.  Ta!”  The blue box faded into nothing and Amy went inside.

Sherlock made a slow turn round the vacated garden, examining the tiny burn marks in the grass, the various footsteps and mudtracks left by skidding, and the partially destroyed contraptions that John Smith, or rather, The Doctor, had left behind.

“John, I… There must be…  John, you’re still holding the gun.”

As he looked down, John saw the gun, still smoking slightly, in his hand.  He quickly tucked it away.  “Jesus, we need to get out of here.  The police are probably on their way.”

John and Sherlock made their way to the side gate and left quickly.  A black SUV was parked at the kerb. 

With practiced non-chalance, they tried to walk by unnoticed, but once they were near the vehicle, the window rolled down.  He spoke with an American accent.  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson?”

“Yes?  Can we help you?”

The man flashed a brilliant grin.   “The Doctor is busy right now, but he said you might have some questions.  Please,” The doors popped open.  “Get in.”

Sherlock got into the front seat as John climbed into the back.  “And here I thought we might not have mysterious black vehicles picking us up in this case.  Just inexplicable hallucinations.”

The driver guffawed.  “I don’t know about inexplicable and they certainly weren’t hallucinations. And Mycroft Holmes has absolutely no influence over _my_ department.”

With a sharp tug at his scarf, Sherlock glanced at the computer screens and equipment that lined every inch of the vehicle’s interior.  “That's rather unique. Who am I speaking to?”

The driver pulled a hand from the steering wheel and held it out.  “Captain Jack Harkness, Torchwood.  Pleased to meet you, Mr. Holmes.  Let’s find a café where we can talk.”  He hit a button on the dashboard.  “Tosh, need a quiet spot for a talk and a coffee.  Retcon protocol.”

A woman’s voice in the speaker replied back.  “GPS coordinates coming through now.”

Jack checked the directions and turned the wheel.  When they stopped at a crossroads, he looked over at Sherlock.  “Nice coat.”

…

Sherlock Holmes loudly rustled his paper.  Without glancing up, John Watson, his faithful chronicler, guardian angel and friend, continued typing on his blog. 

Even from the corner of his eye, John saw the roll of Sherlock’s eyes.

Tap.  Tap.  Tap.

After two more minutes, Sherlock sprang from the sofa and stepped over the coffee table.

“Oi!  Mind the biscuits, Sherlock.”

“Bored!” 

“Check your email, then.”

“There’s nothing.”  Sherlock began rummaging around his makeshift lab.

John sighed.  It was going to be a long day.  “Any messages?”

“Nothing.”

“Any texts from-“

“No.”

“Hang on!”  John closed his laptop.  “You didn’t even hear what I was going to say.”

Sherlock fingered a slide from an experiment.  “I didn’t need to.  It was dull anyway.”

“Thanks for that.  I can see you’re going to be pleasant today unless we get a case in.”  John shuffled into the kitchen and cleared space for the kettle.

After setting his slides aside, Sherlock opened his lab notebook.  “I might go to-” He stopped. 

“Go where?”  There was no answer, so John looked up from the box of tea.  Sherlock’s fingertips were tracing circles in his notebook.  “What’s that, then?  Dabbling in seismology?”

“No, I… it’s nothing.  I might go to Bart’s.  Later.”  Sherlock closed the notebook, marking the page with his finger, and strode off to his bedroom, leaving John to make tea alone.

“Hey, if you bring anything back, it’s got to be double bagged!  I just cleaned the fridge, Sherlock!  Sherlock?”

Sherlock closed his door and opened the notebook.  It was there; all of it  With a low, throaty laugh, he shook his head and tore out the offending page and shoved it in the back of his drawer, under the unusable camera phone and partially hidden under last year’s scarf.

He tossed his dressing gown aside and, with his customary flourish, swept back into the living room moments later, fully dressed and twitching with nervous energy.  John looked up from his paper.  “Off to Bart’s?  Molly have something interesting for you?”

“No,” Sherlock drank his cooled tea in quick gulps.  “I need a closer look at some scaffolding.  Come along, John!”

John had to dump his things onto the floor and leave his cup on a space on Sherlock’s bench.  As he slung his jacket over his shoulder, he tried to recall when there had ever been so much clean counter top, but dismissed the thought as a cab stopped at the kerb, Sherlock bouncing on his heels in excitement.


End file.
